


The Raider's Wife

by pokeasleepingsmaug



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-01 17:54:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11491590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pokeasleepingsmaug/pseuds/pokeasleepingsmaug
Summary: So literally the same day I said I hadn’t written anything about Hvitserk, a request for an imagine involving him found its way into my Tumblr inbox! The request was: a Hvitserk imagine where the reader is a princess and he and Bjorn are on a raid and to become allies, Bjorn notices Hvitserk has taken an interest in you, so Bjorn and the king (your dad) agree you and Hvitserk will marry as an ally. This is going to be a multi-parter, because I just love this idea so much! I started writing it and just couldn’t stop. Here’s part one, I hope you like it, nonny!





	1. Chapter 1

The rumors of these men in their fast ships had reached your kingdom only a few days before the men themselves—their ships were so swift they were almost faster than rumors. Your homeland was sun-drenched, a land of rolling hills and fertile soil. Your father ruled only a small kingdom along the coast, but its position was vital. The seat of his power was a city with high walls, right in the place the sea narrowed to a channel between the mainland and the nearby island. It was a hub of trade, an exciting city full of people from many far-off lands.

But the men from the north, with their harsh tongue and coarse customs, had never walked these broad streets. You first saw their ships from the ramparts—you loved to watch the sun rise over the sea. It was a clear morning, your keen eyes could see for miles. But there was no need. The long, lean ships, their sails the color of hellfire, were close enough that you could hear the splash of their oars in your bright blue ocean, could see the water dripping from them as they left the water. The prows on the front of the ships were hideous; growling wolves and dragons with curved teeth. 

You couldn't stop the scream that flew from your lips—you had to warn somebody, anybody, of the doom that was about to befall your beloved home. Every eye from down below turned to you, their shock mirroring yours. Clearly they had expected to strike before anyone was awake. One of them waved to you, you almost swore you could see a grin stretching his mouth. You ran down the stone steps of the city walls as fast as your shaking knees would carry you. Your feet pounded along the street and you hitched your skirt high with your hands. Damn decorum, God would forgive you this moment of indecency when the lives of your people were on the line. 

You crashed through the door of the guard house in a disheveled rush, “the...Northmen are...here,” you panted, trying to catch your breath. Both panic and the unexpected run made it difficult. 

“Luca, take the princess back to the palace immediately. Do not leave her until you have delivered her into the hands of the king's household guard. After that, run back, rousing as many men as you can, and lead them to the walls.” The captain turned his attention from you, and a tall, dark-haired young man, sword at his hip and shield slung across his back, ushered you out the door. You jogged back to the palace, the silent guard behind you the whole way.

The palace guards sprang to attention when they saw you approaching, and finally your guardian spoke. “The Northmen have arrived at our city gates. The captain of the guard will send a message about the invaders as soon as he is able.” He placed his hand between your shoulder blades and shoved you roughly forward. “The princess alerted us of their coming. She has saved us all.” And then he turned and ran, shouting as he went, rousing the men to arms in defense of our home.

The guards hurried you inside the palace, one escorting you to your father's chamber and the other running off to alert the captain of the news. Three hard knocks on his heavy wooden door and you were invited inside. The guard dropped instantly to his knees in a deep bow, but you couldn't stop yourself from blurting the news. “The Northmen have come! The ones who have been plundering the coast.”

Your father regarded you, nodding. “I suspected they would.” He turned to the guard. “On your feet, man, there is no time for this. Gather my children, take them to my wife's chamber. I will have four guards posted there, two within the chamber and two without. I go to the gates.” Irritation flashed through you as the guard placed his hand on your shoulder to guide you to your mother's chamber. Did these men have no respect for their princess?

They worked swiftly, and soon you sat in your mother's chambers, eating breakfast with your younger sisters. The food turned to ash in your mouth, and you pushed it away. Your mother—believing idle hands to be an invitation for sin—somehow found embroidery for you to do, even during a raid. You sighed. The city could be in flames around you, and still your unshakable, dutiful mother would be tending to her work. Your younger brother sat at Mother's knee, reading an old Bible aloud. You envied him the easier work, but had to admit you found the familiar passages comforting. 

It was near mid-day when your father returned to the palace, releasing you from the prison of embroidering in your mother's chambers. It wasn't that you disliked embroidery, you simply preferred weaving. And not being locked in one room all day was even better. The guard informed you all that you were to meet your father in the hall for the noon meal. 

Your mother sent you off to your room with a maid to redo your hair. You hadn't bothered to fix it after your misadventures that morning. Quickly, the maid pinned your curls into place and straightened the cap covering your hair, and you made your way quickly to the hall to join your family for the meal.

Except it wasn't just your family. Your father was seated at the table with a small group of the Northmen, and your knees turned to water just like they had earlier. “My daughter,” your father greeted you, beckoning to you to come sit at the table. “Our guests do not speak our language, I am afraid, but they do speak the Frankish tongue. I know your mother has taught you the language of her people.”

You moved toward the seat your father motioned you to, dread curling itself in your belly as you took your place between two of the Northmen. One of them—you were almost certain he was the one that waved at you from his ship, arrogant man—turned his attention to you immediately. “What is your name? I am called Hvitserk.” He did indeed speak the Frankish tongue, but the words fell clumsily from his mouth. You tried to hide your disgust at his poor mastery of the language, and at the ugliness of his name. Hvitserk? What a harsh, strange language they had, if that one word was any indication at all.

“My name is Y/n,” you told him, the Frankish language coming easily to you. You hoped he would feel embarrassed by his clumsy way of speaking, maybe see that him and his people simply did not belong here. Maybe it would send him back to the ice and snow he came from, never to bother your sunny shores again. 

“Your home is pretty,” he told you, taking a large bite out of a chicken leg. You pursed your lips in distaste. Obviously this man was incapable of feeling shame, doomed heathen that he was. What had your people done to offend God so, that he sent these wild men to plague you? However, unlike this man, you had manners.

You took a delicate bite of bread, taking your time to chew and swallow before answering. “Prettier than your home?”

He grinned at you, mouth full of more chicken, and you had to look away from the site. He wouldn't have been so hideous if he had better manners. In fact, you found him quite pleasing to look at—light brown hair pulled back in braids, eyes a shade of green that reminded you of a jade bead your father had given you. His hands—covered in chicken grease, you noted with some disdain—were strong; the tendons stood out beneath his pale skin, startling you. You had never seen hands so strong, and the thought of what they might be capable of sent an involuntary shudder through you. 

You'd heard the stories of the Northmen, of course, but seeing them in the flesh, the strength of Hviterk's hands, the mischievous glint in his green eyes.... You could imagine the destruction such men could bring, and before you realized what you were doing, you crossed yourself. God would save you. “Why are you doing that?” Hvitserk asked, reaching for his goblet. 

Embarrassed by your rude behavior, you looked down at your plate. It was a good thing Father didn't see you, or he would punish you for that rudeness. “It is to call the protection of God,” you explained. “To bless my food.” You felt only a little guilty over the lie. It would save Hvitserk's feelings, and perhaps he wouldn't kill you. From what you'd heard of these savages, they were just the type to break bread with a man before killing his family.

Hvitserk considered this, chewing bread. “Does the blessing make it taste better?” You giggled at the absurdity of the question and he grinned at you, the corners of his forest-green eyes crinkling. His chest swelled out with pride, pleased to have gotten a positive reaction from you at last.“You have a pretty laugh.” He swallowed, took another bite, and smiled even as he was chewing. “Good thing I am funny.”

His glimmering green eyes drew a warm blush across your cheeks, widening his grin and forcing you to turn your flustered gaze to your plate. How could this stranger, this heathen, draw such impossible feelings in you already? You should hate him, instead you found yourself intrigued by him, charmed by his easy smile and jade-green eyes, even by his voracious appetite and sickening manners. Everything about this man was so vibrant. You only ever felt this alive watching the sun rise over the ocean. Your quiet, safe life was far from exciting, but that's what it meant to be a princess. He was more open than any person you had ever met, guileless, not wanting to make you laugh than for any reason other than he liked the sound of it.

In his company it was easy to ignore the hum of conversation in the background as Hvitserk continued to smile at you, waggling his eyebrows to make you laugh. You were shocked when your father called for your attention. “Yes, Father?” You tore your eyes away from Hviterk's laughing mouth to find your father's gaze. 

“You are to be wed on Sunday. You will help your mother with the preparations.” The air sucked itself from your lungs, leaving you gasping in shock. You knew you were old enough to be wed, and there had been several suitors seeking your hand, but your father had made no mention to you of choosing one. In fact, he had seemed unimpressed by every single one.

“To whom, Father?”

“The young man sitting beside you. I believe his name is Hvitserk.” Your father was speaking in your native tongue, but upon hearing his name Hvitserk looked up. His eyes traveled from your father's face to yours, confusion plain on his features, and he looked to the man with the long blond braid for answers. You'd been so intent on Hvitserk before you'd barely noticed him. Even though he smiled, the words sounded harsh and low coming from his throat. Would you be forced to speak that terrible language, to hear it every day until you died? This must be God punishing you for your indecency this morning, showing your legs as you ran through the city.

The tall blond stopped speaking at the choking sound from the chair beside you, and the man on the other side of Hvitserk—another blond—pounded on his back. Hvitserk gasped, took a drink to compose himself, and turned his shocked green eyes to you with a weak smile. “I....” he shrugged. “There could be worse things, right?” You nodded slowly, still in shock. As far as punishments go, marrying a heathen was about as bad as it could get, no matter the jade of his eyes or the strength of his hands.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding day!

The next few days passed in a whirlwind, running around the palace with your mother, trying on dresses, purchasing food for a feast, going to confession so you could be married with a clean conscience. The irony of going to confession to marry a heathen was not lost on you, but you were grateful for the chance to speak your troubled mind to the priest. Obviously you were a grave sinner, for the thought of marrying this strange man was more than a little exciting,

Frightening, mostly, but he seemed kind enough, and he liked to make you laugh. You had not seen him since that day when it was decided you would marry. Hvitserk and his brothers had returned to their ships, but today you would see him in just a few minutes. Dressed in a flowing white gown, a veil so thick you could barely see through it obscuring your face, you clung to your father's arm as he led you into the church.

“Father,” you began, voice trembling. “How am I to marry a heathen in a church? Father John would never allow such a thing.”

“Hvitserk was baptized yesterday morn,” your father informed you, pleased. “This marriage will keep us safe from these raiders. They will not have to pay our taxes when they come raiding here, and in return they will not attack us. Your marriage to the prince binds the deal.”

“You never told me he was a prince, Father,” you chided lightly.

“Did you think I would marry you off to any heathen, daughter? He is the son of Ragnar Loth-something, the man who raided Paris. Hvitserk is his third son.” The air darkened, the smell of incense reaching your nose as you entered the church. You knew he was leading you up the aisle, toward the altar, toward the unknown fate that awaited you there. “I will miss you, daughter, although I've always known the day would come when you would leave me.” He planted a dry, whiskery kiss on your cheek through the veil, and suddenly his arm was gone.

The hand that grasped yours was strong, hard with callouses along the palms and the base of the fingers. It was a little clammy in your grasp, and a voice whispered in your ear in clumsy Frankish, “sorry my hand is wet, I am nervous.”

A high-pitched, breathy giggle escaped your lips against your will. “I'm nervous, too.” 

“That little laugh made me less afraid,” he told you, squeezing your hand as he began to lead you forward. You squeezed back as he stopped you and turned you to face sideways. He reached for your other hand, holding both of yours in both of his. The priest droned on in Latin, of which you understood only a little. Nevertheless, the sounds of it were soothing and familiar, and you knew what the passages meant anyway. Father John always said the same ones at marriages, and when you asked him as a small child what passages they were, he told you. You had since read them often in your Bible at home. 

Then came the vows, done in the Frankish tongue so Hvitserk could understand and know what he was promising. His words may have faltered due to the unfamiliarity of the language, but his hands were steady and warm as they held yours. “I, Hvitserk, take you, Y/n, to be my lawfully wedded wife; to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.”

“I, Y/n, take you, Hvitserk, to be my lawfully wedded husband; to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.” You tried to keep your voice as strong as Hvitserk's had been, but you couldn't quite mask the tremble. His warm, strong hands squeezed yours gently.

“By the power vested in me by God and the Church, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.” There was an awkward pause before the priest leaned in and instructed Hvitserk, “lift the veil and kiss your bride.” 

His hands fumbled at your veil, lifting it quickly up and pushing it over your head. Finally you could see his face clearly. He looked almost shy as his jade eyes met yours. You shot him what you hoped was a small, encouraging smile, and that was all the invitation he needed to pull you against him and kiss you.

You had attended several weddings in your life, but never had you seen a marriage-kiss like the one Hvitserk gave you. They were always chaste, a quick meeting of the lips, over in a blink. Once you had thought that romantic, but the way your husband kissed you rewrote your definition of romantic. His kiss was anything but chaste; his tongue plundered your mouth, demanding entrance that you were too shocked to deny him. One of his hands cupped your chin before sliding around to the back of your neck, the other wrapped around your waist to pull you flush against him. You couldn't have escaped him even if you wanted to.

It was only when Father John cleared his throat loudly that Hvitserk released you, grinning. You felt your cheeks flaming but you returned his smile anyway. It was a good thing he was taking you away after the feast tonight, because how else could you possibly look your family in the eye after a sinful kiss like that? The memory of his lips on yours left you breathless, awakened in you something the priest told you to fear. But how could you fear someone with a smile like that, who kissed like his life depended on it? “Next time I kiss you, no one will interrupt us,” Hvitserk promised.

And with those words, you knew you were going to hell for feeling lust in a church.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty short, but the next one is much longer, and almost done! Expect the wedding night to be posted sometime tomorrow!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding night. NSFW. Hope you guys enjoy!

The feast had been fun, full of family and friends wishing you well. The Vikings were there, too, clapping and cheering anytime Hvitserk turned his attention to you. He'd grinned sheepishly, trying to explain to you it was their way of preparing them for—he didn't know the word—what happens when a man and woman are alone together. 

You buried your blushing face in your hands and murmured the word to him, mortified. “Coupling,” he repeated slowly, savoring the feel of it on his tongue. He grinned at you, seeming amused by your embarrassment, and asked, “Have you done this coupling before?”

You shook your head, still blushing, damn that heathen, and explained, “It is sin for a woman to couple with a man who is not her husband.” The watching Vikings must have guessed the topic of conversation from your face, for they hooted louder than ever. 

“It is easy,” Hvitserk assured you, jade eyes roaming over your body with wanton hunger. You could practically read the sinful thoughts in his heathen mind. It should have disgusted you, but he was your husband, wedded in the church, with the blessing of God and your family. You smiled slowly at him over your goblet.

Just before the two of you went off to the chamber your parents had prepared for you to share, Hvitserk's brother Bjorn, the tall man with the long blond braid, handed him a large jug and two cups. Bjorn offered you a small smile, clapping a hand on your shoulder, before lumbering off to sit with his men.

And now here you were, watching Hvitserk pour the drink from the jug into the cups.”Back home, a husband and wife drink honey mead for the first month after their wedding,” he explained, handing you a cup. “It brings good health and fortune.” Pagan superstition, but the drink was almost as sweet on your tongue as your wedding kiss had been. Hvitserk sat down and settled himself against the carved wooden headboard. He patted the place beside him, motioning for you to sit.

You did, and he turned to look at you, taking a long pull from his cup. “What was your priest saying? I did not understand that language.”

“It's from the Bible.”

“But what does it mean, Y/n?” He asked, smiling. “I want to know what I'm getting into here.”

You blushed, suddenly shy. “It has always been one of my favorites.” You looked away, quietly reciting, “Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always hopes, always trusts, always perseveres.”

You brought the cup to your lips to distract yourself, took a large gulp of the mead, and felt its warmth falling into your belly. You began to relax. “Pretty words, but I do not know what some of them mean. My Frankish is not very good.” He smiled at you, green eyes warm. “When you learn my language, will you tell it to me again, in words I can understand?”

You nodded, suddenly bold. “Yes. But only if you do something for me.”

“Anything, wife,” Hvitserk promised. 

You took another gulp of mead to steady yourself. “In the church, you promised we would not be interrupted the next time you kiss me.”

“So I did.”

“I am ready for the next kiss.” Hvitserk bit his lip nervously as he leaned in. You closed the small space between your mouths and felt him respond eagerly. He pulled you onto his lap, circling his arms around your waist. 

He broke the kiss to lean his forehead against yours, a crooked little smile on his face. “I know you have never done this coupling before, but,” he grasped your hand, kissed the palm softly, and brought it to an alarming hardness in the front of his trousers. You'd heard the whisperings of the kitchen maids, and your mother just yesterday had tried to tell you what your new husband would expect from you. Between those two things, you had thought yourself prepared.

The shock of his manhood under your hand proved how naive you were, and you couldn't stop the small, breathy “oh” that escaped your lips. You knew your eyes must be the size of dinner plates, because Hvitserk laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a merry, impish grin. “I am hungry for you, Y/n.” His voice was low and husky, sending shivers down your spine, and you didn't protest as he pushed you back to lay on the bed. 

His impatient hands fumbled to undo your wedding dress, but after only a few moments of struggling, he pulled a short knife from his belt. He grabbed the lace collar of your dress and pulled it away from your skin before dragging the knife roughly through the entire length of your wedding dress. The material was stiff and thick, and you found yourself thinking it might just have been faster to get a maid to undress you. Despite that, you couldn't deny the strange thrill the ripping sound awoke in your belly; you shivered when the cold steel point of the knife kissed your skin. He was careful not to cut you.

He parted the dress with his hands, moaning. “So beautiful. And every inch of you mine to devour.” He pulled the green tunic over his head, then shimmied out of his trousers. You were unprepared for the sight of him fully before you. His shoulders were broad and his hips lean, beneath his skin you could see lines of rippling muscle and bulging tendons. A few light scars crisscrossed his arms—a warrior's body. There was not a single bit of him that looked soft or weak, and you found yourself afraid. Was a man's prick supposed to be that large? Surely he would break you beneath his hard body? Such a man was obviously crafted for fighting, not for loving. 

But then he leaned down, lowering his weight to rest on you with surprising gentleness. He began by nibbling the shell of your ear, sending an unexpected shudder down your body. He grinned, pleased with himself, and planted a trail of sloppy kisses from your neck to your breasts. He paused here, first hefting them in his hands, squeezing them gently. He then rolled your nipples between his thumb and forefinger, watching the way they sprang to attention at his touch. You couldn't dent his attentions felt good, stoking the small flame the mead built in your stomach.

He smiled up at you, gauging your reaction, before slipping your right nipple into his mouth. You gasped at warmth as his tongue traced a circle around it. You rubbed your thighs together, instinctively trying to ease the sudden, throbbing ache between them. Hvitserk released your breast only to attend to the other, and your fingers clenched in the linen bedsheets. He dragged his teeth slowly, softly across your nipple, drawing a needy keen from your mouth. Hvitserk grinned up at you. “You like this.” He rose up to kiss your mouth, drinking in your desire like the honeyed mead. “I like it, too.”

And with that, he kissed down your stomach. He nipped at each of your hipbones in turn before tracing the ridge of them with his eager tongue and finally he parted your legs, still rubbing hopelessly together. He settled himself on his elbows, easily tossing your thighs over his shoulders and anchoring you in place with those strong hands of his. “Does it ache for me here, konan min?” He took one finger and slowly teased along the outside of your entrance. The breath escaped you, somewhere between a sob and a gasp. “I will take care of it,” Hvitserk promised.

Watching him discover you had been a pleasure all its own, the way his eyes lit at everything he found making you feel beautiful and cherished. His hungry mouth on your skin had awakened an appetite in you long suppressed, that you had always believed to be shameful. Slowly he moved his face toward your throbbing center. But despite the need coursing through you, some part of you still feared angering God. “Hvitserk,” you called, “that is sin.”

“I think sin is something your god made up to keep you from pleasure,” he told you, matter-of-fact. “But I do not care about his silly rules.” His tongue dipping into your folds drove all thoughts of sin from your mind; Hvitserk took the task of devouring you very seriously. His tongue traced along the outer edge of your entrance, light and playful. You arched your back, moaning and needy. His tongue pushed into you, gentle and warm, and you felt yourself begin to come apart at the seams. 

After a few slow licks, he took your nub into his mouth. He sucked gently and simultaneously flicked his tongue across it. Your hips bucked against him, his strong arms holding you in place as you squirmed, a panting, half-sobbing mess. His attentions on that sensitive bud brought the ache between your thighs to something unbearable. “Hvitserk,” you whimpered, a plea that he answered joyfully by inserting a finger into your aching core.

He pumped his hand in time with the gentle flicks of his tongue, but just when you thought surely you would die, he stopped. The sudden loss of his mouth and finger shocked you like cold water, and you cried out in protest as he crawled up your body. “The first time you come, it will be from my cock.” His mouth and chin were shiny with your juices, and you could taste your own pleasure as he kissed you. One of his hands was between your legs, you felt the blunt head of his prick pushing against your tight entrance. Again you wondered if it would fit within you.

He slid himself into you slowly, his lips parted in pleasure as he gazed down at you from beneath hooded lids. It hurt a little, the great pressure of him filling you to bursting, but this sweet pain was the answer to the ache he'd spent so long awakening in your body. He paused when he was fully inside you, his jade eyes falling closed as he claimed your mouth in a warm, slow kiss. He opened his eyes to meet yours, slowly pulling his hips back from yours. He pressed his hips forward against yours again, chuckling breathlessly as your eyes widened in pleasure.

The next time he moved into you again, your hips rose to meet his and he threw back his head and moaned, “yes, konan min, yes.” He began to move faster, encouraged by your responsiveness. Your arms circled him of their own volition, fingers curling into the steel muscles coiled beneath the smooth skin of his back. The feeling of coming undone grew in you again, coiling thick and hot between your legs until one hard thrust had your entire body spasming around Hvitserk's cock, a primal shout ripped from your throat. 

His breathing was as unsteady as yours as he twitched within you, spilling his seed with one final push into you. His hard body melted against you, warm and heavy, both of you too spent to disentangle yourselves just yet. After a few moments he lifted his head from it rested on your breast, a lazy smile curving up the corners of his mouth. His green eyes were warm and sleepy as he met your gaze. “I think your god would be ashamed of you,” he teased lightly. “You were just as hungry for me as I was for you.”

He pressed his nose against yours as you replied, as primly as you could when your breathing still hadn't steadied, “We are married. It is not a sin for us to couple.” He pulled his softening cock from you; you were surprised at the tenderness between your thighs. 

He noticed your wince and brought a hand to gently stroke your jawline. “Your body will get used to it.” He reached to the small stand beside the bed and handed you a cup of the mead from earlier. “This will help to dull it.” You took a sip, feeling the warmth spread slowly through you as Hvitserk grabbed an apple and took a bite. “Hungry?” He asked, and you shook your head, laughing. 

“Your hunger knows no bounds!” You exclaimed, smiling at him.

A slow smirk spread across his face, his green eyes glinting with wicked mischief. “You have no idea, konan min.” As tired as your body was, his husky tone and the look in his eyes still managed to ignite some flame within you. It seemed you were as insatiable as your husband.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Vikings have just set sail for home. Hvitserk and his new wife have a little chat while he's taking a turn at the oars.

You were unaccustomed to the rolling of the ship as it rode the waves, but at least there was nothing in your stomach to come up anymore. Hvitserk, rubbing circles between your shoulders as you retched into the ocean, assured you that in a few days you wouldn't get sick anymore. He'd pulled you onto his lap and kissed your hair, but now he was taking a turn at the oars. 

You leaned against the side of the ship near him. He'd removed his tunic in the heat, and sweat ran in rivulets down his smooth, pale skin. You appreciated watching him row; the bulge and flex of his upper arms, the concentration on his handsome face. Suddenly wondering something, you pushed yourself to your unsteady feet and stumbled graceless around the rowing bench, ignoring Hvitserk's chuckles as he watched your lack of sea legs. You practically moaned aloud at the sight of Hvitserk's broad back, glinting with sweat, the muscles rippling with his exertion. 

“I can gain an appreciation for your work,” you remarked, mouth suddenly dry.

Hvitserk looked over his shoulder at you, waggling his eyebrows. “I'll make a Viking out of you yet, konan min,” he promised. The use of the endearment sent a rush of heat between your legs. He must have seen it in your eyes; his expression went from one of playfulness to smoldering heat. “Come sit beside me.” His voice was husky now, raising goosebumps on your arms as it washed over you like a warm wave. You obeyed without hesitation.

The smell of his sweat reached your nostrils, part woodsmoke and leather, part hard-working man. You'd woken up this morning in linen sheets that smelled like him, to a gentle mouth kissing your cheeks, your forehead, the tip of your nose. When he'd seen you were awake, he settled himself slowly onto your body as he pressed his lips to yours. What followed next was a far cry from the way he'd loved you last night, slower and sweeter, but no less satisfying for all that. He'd taken care to be gentle this time, conscious of the ache he'd left between your thighs.

Hvitserk's voice, barely above a growl in your ear, brought you back to the present, to your sweating on husband and the sea-spray misting on your skin. “I'll make you a Viking when I take you right on this ship beneath the stars, when my thrusts are in the same rhythm as the waves.” He smiled, wolfish and hungry, seeing the flush rise on your cheeks. “I want to devour you over and over, every night and every morning. I woke up this morning just as hungry for you as I was last night. I feel like a starving man, and you're the only thing that satisfies my hunger.”

You leaned in close to whisper in his ear, “Were there not so many people around, I'd ask you to devour me now.” You dropped your voice even lower, suddenly worried someone else might hear your sinful desires. “I can still feel your fingers on my skin, lighting fires in my blood.” Surely your husband was the devil himself, tempting you to such irresistible sin. You thought you would follow Hvitserk into the gates of hell. Even the devil had been an angel once, and you were not so strong as an archangel. 

“Do you still ache? I thought taking you this morning might ease it a little,” he told you, smiling sweetly.

You blushed. “It does. But I like it. It reminds me of last night.” A flush was beginning to creep up his neck, and you suspected it had more to do with your words than his rowing. 

“You're making me want to.... What did you call what we did last night?”

“Coupling?”  
“No, the other word.”

“Sin?”

“Yes. I want to sin with you right now,” he moaned. He jerked his chin sharply down toward his lap. 

You eyes widened at the bulge clearly visible in his trousers, and you found yourself suddenly breathless as you imagined the way it would feel sliding into you. “Me, too.”

“Tell me what you are thinking,” Hvitserk demanded.

You gulped, wondering how to tell it to him. “I'm thinking about that.... About you.... Your hands on my—my breasts. About kissing you, and how soft your lips are. How it felt to have your tongue in places I never imagined a tongue being.” He chuckled at that, warm green eyes encouraging you. “And I'm wondering something.”

“What's that, konan min?”

“If my mouth can pleasure you the same way yours can pleasure me.” He moaned loudly, unable to contain himself at the mere thought of it.

“Hey! Not now!” Bjorn scolded sharply, coming up behind you to slap Hvitserk upside the head. “Gods brother, are you so insatiable you can't wait until after dark?” He strode off, muttering to darkly to himself in that harsh language of theirs.

“Tonight, konan min, we will find out,” he promised, green eyes surveying you with open hunger. You longed to be his feast again. The day stretched out before you, and never before had you hated the warm late-morning sun so much. Bjorn barked a few more harsh words in your direction and Hvitserk mocked him, aping a serious face. “If we do not talk about something else, we will be in trouble but I can think of nothing but the taste of you.”

“Tell me about where we're going,” you suggested, nerves dancing in your stomach. You hadn't given too much thought to it,with the rushed wedding preparations and then the excitement of the wedding itself. 

“It is called Kattegat, and it's much colder than your home. The seas are rougher, too, and the winters long. They are good for drinking and telling stories around a fire with family. I will teach you our language, too, and about our gods, so you can understand. There are mountains and woods. My brothers and I have a cabin in the woods that we go sometimes to get away from the town. It has grown so much recently, sometimes it is nice to be with just ourselves. I can teach you to shoot a bow, if you like, and we can hunt with my brothers.”

“I've never shot a bow before,” you admitted. “Women here do not do such things.”

“It's different in Kattegat. My mother rules as the queen, since my father Ragnar left.” He tilted his head, sheepish. “Mother will be surprised I have taken a wife, but she is kind and wise. And I have four brothers—you met Bjorn already, his mother's name is Lagertha. She's a great shieldmaiden. My mother, Aslaug, has four sons. First Ubbe, then me, next Sigurd, and Ivar is the youngest. Best to stay away from Ivar. He is almost always angry.” Hvitserk's voice was resigned.

“You will like everyone else though, I think. And you will not be stuck indoors all day if you do not want to be. You can hunt with me and my brothers, or train to fight with us. You can work with the women in the hall, weaving and sewing, or you can find whatever you like to occupy your time. It will be your decision how to spend your days.” He paused, glancing at you as he rowed. “I hope you will spend some time with my mother. She is a very wise woman and can teach you a lot about my people and Kattegat. She is very respected.”

You nodded, grinning at him, before playfully lapping up a river of sweat flowing down his flexing bicep. “I cannot wait to reach Kattegat.” 

He paused in his rowing to gently nip the side of your neck, drawing a gasp from you. Hvitserk resumed the rowing as if he'd never broken his rhythm. “And I cannot wait to take you there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Aslaug is dead, just play along with me here. I'm not quite sure when I'm setting this timeline-wise. Maybe I'm just pretending Aslaug isn't dead, I don't know.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hvitserk fulfills his earlier promise and makes you a Viking.

You had thought Hvitserk wasn't serious earlier when he'd promised to make you a Viking by sinning on the ship. Surely he wouldn't dare, not with so many other people around. But as soon as the last streaks of light faded from the sky and men rolled themselves in thin blankets against the chill of the ocean night, his hand snaked around your waist and found its way up to your breasts. 

“I believe you were wondering about something earlier, konan min,” he whispered into your ear. His breath was hot against your cheek, and he slowly nibbled along the edge of your ear. His mouth—always hungry—wandered down the back of your neck, his breath tickling you as he sucked on the sensitive skin. “Are you ready to see what that pretty pink mouth of yours can do?”

You turned in his arms, eyes wide in shock. “Here? What about all the people?”

He gave you a lazy, reassuring smile. “They are tired from rowing all day, and we will be quiet.” He assessed you quickly, jade eyes amused, and added, “Probably.” You tried to choke back a laugh and failed, burrowing your face against his shoulder even though he couldn't see your blush in the darkness. “Maybe I want them to hear your moans.” His voice dropped to a husky whisper, his mouth nuzzling into your hair, planting kisses along your scalp. 

He pulled back a little to meet your gaze, his forest-green eyes challenging. “Besides, konan min, I want to see how hungry you are for me.” You held his eyes steadily, your hands slowly wandering down his lean, hard body. You thrilled at the feel of his steel muscles beneath your touch. You'd always thought you would wed a soft Southern prince, not a man solid as ice beneath your warm hands. He shifted the blanket to cover you as you ducked lower; his head turning to make sure no one was watching. He nodded once to you with a grin that took your breath away.

He lifted his hips to help you pull his trousers down, and you wrapped your hand around his shaft. He was already hard, the mere anticipation of your mouth driving him half-crazy. Hvitserk had stolen kisses from you all day when Bjorn's back was turned, leaving you longing for more—always hungry and never satisfied. 

But finally you could feast on your husband. A little unsure, you bent your head toward his cock and inspected it with wide eyes. You wondered again how it had fit inside you, but took a deep breath and focused on the task at hand. You ran your tongue up the ridge of it in one long sweep, heard your husband hiss as his fingers clawed into your shoulder. Reaching the head, you swirled your tongue around it before parting your lips.

You sucked it down toward the back of your throat and gasped, nearly retching. Breathing deeply through your nose to calm yourself, you eased it a little toward the front of your mouth. Hvitserk's hand landed at the base of your head, gently stroking the back of your neck. His long fingers gripped your hair, guiding you to bob slowly up and down along his length. He was careful not to push himself too deeply into your mouth. 

You settled into a rhythm and he let go of your hair, nails digging into the skin of your shoulder instead. He was panting like he'd been running in the sun, and pride rose in you to draw that reaction from him. Emboldened, you sucked him down deeper. You expected it this time, but Hvitserk didn't. He moaned, hips bucking, before he pulled you off his cock and dragged you up his warrior's body.

“I think you've proven your mouth can please me.” He kissed you, ferocious as a starving wolf. “But now it's time for me to make you a Viking.” His hands on your hips guided you onto his cock and he was stretching you again, satisfying the sweet, throbbing ache he'd been stoking in your core all day. You buried your face in his shoulder, biting down at the crook of his neck to keep from moaning at the sudden fullness. His mouth found yours, plundering tongue sliding between your lips and dancing with yours. 

He thrust up into you, bit your bottom lip to keep your mouth molded to his, and he swallowed your moans like they were all he needed to live. The ship was rocking gently on the long, slow waves of the open ocean and he matched his rhythm to theirs. His hands grabbed possessive handfuls of your ass, moving you to match his pace. 

You relaxed against him, feeling like you could take him for hours like this, make love to him all night on this rocking ship beneath the stars. He smiled against your mouth as he kissed you, green eyes meeting yours, and you could see Hvitserk was thinking the same thing. You returned his grin and moved easily to the sea's pace, ready to sin until the sun rose.


End file.
